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Plaster Messiahs, by Marge Simon (6/20/11)
I dreamed of butterflies, / but when the storms came, / they lifted up and disappeared.
Interview: Marge Simon, by JoSelle Vanderhooft (3/29/10)
I'm a happy camper when I'm doing both: writing and art every day, along with a dose of reading and adventures into what else is being done by other artists/writers and poets. Like breathing.
Sightings, by Marge Simon (3/8/10)
A young writer at your door, / you made no excuses for / the empty bottles, the debris / of loneliness and bygone times,
Spacers' Prison, by Marge Simon (6/1/09)
We are his reminders, / a company of ghosts,
The Time Traveler Takes His Nth Lover at a Point of Departure, by Bruce Boston and Marge Simon (1/12/09)
Centuries have come and gone / in the flash of a passing station
The Astronaut's Return, by Marge Simon (11/3/08)
Too long I've been in exile, / I've paid enough for my misdeeds.
The Native Finds Her in the Wreckage, by Marge Simon (10/22/07)
but he breaks her fingers anyway, / stretches the bones to imitate his own,
Armageddon: At the Clinic, by Marge Simon (4/16/07)
Stella checks the food supplies.
Raindogs and Dustpuppets, by Chris Gauthier, illustration by Marge Simon (3/5/07)
They had neither surface nor substance—they were little more than dog-shaped holes in the rain—but they behaved just like dogs.
Ajax Redux, by Bruce Boston and Marge Simon (3/6/06)
I live in a land of ice / and mirth and explicit premise. / I'm starving, but I don't hunger / for your glittering glory.
Sturgeon Crosses Over, by Marge Simon (7/4/05)
Light is calling
The Tall Walkers, by Marge Simon, illustration by Marge Simon (8/16/04)
Thin & long / as moonlit shadows
Artist of Antithesis, by Marge Simon (5/10/04)
"I work spontaneously. It's a personal thing, like writing poetry or short stories."
The Holes through which the Scarabs Come, by Marge Simon (4/14/03)
If you get high enough / you can worship down.
Comrade Grandmother, by Naomi Kritzer, illustration by Marge Simon (9/2/02)
"For everything there is a price, Comrade Daughter," Baba Yaga said. "For everything there is a cost. We are not socialists here. Have you come to me ready to pay?"
A Tale of Collaboration, by Marge Simon and Bruce Boston (4/2/01)
I open my fingers, drop the pen. / It bounces on the forest carpet, / lands on a trail of blood kisses.